


Do I Need To Use My Belt

by sparxwrites



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Crying, Dom/sub, M/M, Power Play, Snark, Spanking, bottom!Lucier, sub!Lucifer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-29
Updated: 2014-01-29
Packaged: 2018-01-10 12:28:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1159759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparxwrites/pseuds/sparxwrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Lucifer is a little too mouthy and Sam has had enough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Do I Need To Use My Belt

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fuckyeahlucifersupernatural](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuckyeahlucifersupernatural/gifts).



> Because our lord and master fuckyeahlucifersupernatural mentioned Lucifer getting spanked and my imagination ran away with it…

“ _Sam_ ,” whines Lucifer, and it’s credit to him that he can look mildly intimidating naked from the waist down and sprawled on his front on Sam’s bed. “I think you’re being a little mean here. I’m really not sure I deserve this.” He sighs, stretches out luxuriously like a cat, rubs against the bed a little with slow, sinuous rolls of his hips.

Sam is unfazed. “Of course you deserve it,” he says, shortly, amusement thick in his voice despite the sharp edge to his words. “You’re a little brat.”  
“Dean started it,” objects Lucifer, and Sam groans, dragging at his hips until Lucifer cooperates and shifts up onto his knees, face still pressed against the mattress and ass presented for Sam’s inspection.

“You told my brother you were going to kill him,” says Sam patiently, with the air of one who has had this argument many, many times before, dragging his nails hard down the curve of Lucifer’s buttocks and relishing the hiss it draws from the prostate archangel, the thin red lines it scores across otherwise unmarked skin.

Lucifer whines when Sam draws his hand away, arching backwards and chasing it until fingernails dig dents into the base of his spine. “You threaten to kill him on a daily basis,” he reminds Sam, only to gasp at the sharp crack of flesh against flesh as Sam hits him, hard, eyes snapping shut.

“He’s my  _brother_ ,” hisses Sam, winding fingers into Lucifer’s hair and tugging, forcing Lucifer’s back to arch unnaturally, his neck bent back so far he’s staring at the ceiling. “And I don’t have a history of attempted genocide against the human race. I told you, Luci, this was one of the rules. You’re nice to Dean and Cas. Have you forgotten the rules? Do I need to remind you?”

He pauses, tugs a little harder on Lucifer’s hair. “Do I need to use my belt?”

As best as he’s able, Lucifer shakes his head, muscles trembling with the tension of holding his position. “No sir, sorry sir,” he manages, breath coming in shaky gasps – he loves having his hair pulled, Sam knows that, but like this it’s too tight and too hard and he’s not sure whether it’s pleasure or pain. “I’m sorry. I know the rules.”

Sam pauses, gentles his hold a little. “Lucifer?” he says, quietly, resting his other hand on the curve of the archangel’s hip. “Colour?”  
“Green,” manages Lucifer, a little strangled from the stress the position is putting on his chest and throat. “Fine, just- not going to be able to hold this forever.”

“Okay,” says Sam, relaxing his hold but not letting go. He watches as Lucifer slumps gratefully against the mattress, chest heaving as he sucks in a deep breath, eyes sliding closed – and only then does he let go, drawing back and straightening up at the side of the bed.

“I’m going to hit you now,” he says, when Lucifer’s relaxed again, eyes heavy-lidded and anticipatory. “You’re going to stay still and count for me.” It’s not a question.

There’s a moment’s silence, then a quiet whine from Lucifer, and reluctant words when he realises what Sam’s waiting for. “Yes, sir,” he says, voice muffled a little against the sheets. “…How many times?”

“As long as it takes for the message to sink in.”

The first blow – second, really, but first for the purposes of Lucifer counting – is reasonably gentle. It leaves a faint pink blush over the fading nail marks, and Lucifer’s hips twitch only a little before he says, “One.”

“Good,” murmurs Sam.

He makes the second one a little harder, building up in intensity and in a slightly different place. He doesn’t draw his hand away afterwards, leaves it resting on the curve of Lucifer’s buttocks and digging nails in deeply as Lucifer gasps out a, “ _Two_.”

The blows get steadily harder, Lucifer’s flinches after them stronger until by ten Sam’s putting his shoulder into it, leaning into the swing, leaving red handprints that will bruise purple behind across the width of Lucifer’s ass and down to the tops of his thighs. By fifteen, Lucifer’s voice cracks as he chokes the numbers out after each stroke, each hit coming so close together he’s barely got time to push the words out before the next one falls.

By twenty, he’s crying.

He presses his face into the mattress, lets it soak up his tears as he trembles through the blows. Sam doesn’t seem to notice he’s stopped counting, keeps hitting, and Lucifer relaxes into the rhythm, floating as he rocks back into the blows and cries until the worry and the knowledge he’s disappointed Sam seeps out of him and melts away.

He’s not sure how many times Sam hits him before the pressure starts fading out, the blows getting lighter and lighter until Sam’s just running soothing hands across his burning, aching backside, gentle and repetitive. “Lucifer?” he asks, evenly, and Lucifer’s breath hitches in his throat as he presses his face further into the mattress.

“Shh,” murmurs Sam, sliding his fingers up from Lucifer’s buttocks to his spine, running up and down over the bumps of his vertebrae as he settles on the edge of the bed, watching Lucifer carefully. “Shh, shh. Did I go too far?”

Lucifer shakes his head, arches a little into Sam’s touch and curls closer to him until Sam starts petting his hair too. “No,” he mumbles, “no, it was… good. I feel better now.” His voice is soft and vulnerable in a way it never is, other than when Sam does this, takes him down after he’s done something wrong and needs to be reminded of it. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” says Sam, a hint of a laugh in his voice that he carefully suppresses as he undoes his jeans, kicks them off and lies on the bed beside Lucifer. The speed with which the archangel curls into him – presses close like he wants to bury inside Sam’s chest where it’s safe  and warm and never come out – would be surprising if he hadn’t seen it every time they’ve done this before.

Sam kisses Lucifer’s forehead, gently, slowly, and then his lips, as Lucifer sighs and purrs into his mouth. “Am I forgiven?” he asks, when Sam pulls back, pressing his head under Sam’s chin and nuzzling against Sam’s neck and mouthing at his pulse point, slow and sleepy.

His backside aches, feels like someone’s sandpapered it, like Sam really  _had_ used the belt like he’d threatened – but all that means is he feels love, that when Sam says, “Yes. Yeah. You’re forgiven,” he knows he’s earned it.


End file.
